Chapter Six

'Maybe you shouldn't have used the word cougar,' Lacey said as we sat in the store mid-morning the next day.

'I don't think it would have made any difference,' I said. 'But, you know, it told him what he would be getting.'

'True. Except he wouldn't, of course. It would never have happened.'

'I know. But we like to dream.'

It was a grey Saturday morning in Gotham City. Lacey was hung over, I was tired. We felt like the day looked. Creepy guy was in his usual place, but several hours earlier than was his practice: perhaps he was worried early closing would become a habit with us. Lacey had not enjoyed herself as much at the Ball as she had expected for the outlay. Harry had spent most of the time pressing the flesh and working such of the room as he could get access to. Most of the men had been doing similar, so she had not received as much male attention as she had hoped, or liked. We discussed how strange it was that Rafe Harlowe, head of Gotham Developments, referred to behind his back as God himself, had felt the need to speak to me. The first time we had exchanged words since James's funeral.

'But he wasn't nice,' I said.

'Maybe they realise they're about to lose,' she said.

How would they know that? The lawyers didn't have the papers yet. I opened my mouth to say something but thought better of it. She hadn't finished speaking.

'Won't it be a relief, when you don't have to think about it anymore?'

'It was almost like a threat, though. Like if I didn't settle, it would be the worse for me.'

'Presumably he means they'll pay you off, no admission of liability.'

'Like the three musketeers, though. All for one, and one for all. I need to see the offer, and see if the others have had one.'

'Don't you want it over, though?'

'I want – the truth – more than anything. And he kind of suggested – I don't know – that Gotham Developments had no case to answer. That they were going to offer a settlement out of love for James. Which is a load of you-know-what. Harlowe hated him.'

'Well, you know, we're not lawyers. So maybe. . .'

She had changed her tune. And Harry had been rattled by the contents of the papers. Had he been telling tales out of school? Was that why Gotham Developments were making noises about this, all of a sudden?

We were silent for a while.

'Must be coffee time,' she said eventually.

As she said it, the door opened, the bell jangled, and Ranald Fairfax entered, carrying a cardboard cup-holder with two coffees in it, and a bag of something.

'Hi,' I said, surprised.

'Oh – hi,' he said, more surprised to see Lacey here as well.

'Hello,' she said, a little archly.

'It's okay, I can fetch another one,' he said.

'Please – ' Lacey started to say.

'It's no bother, honestly.'

With an apologetic smile he put both the cups and the bag on the counter and headed for the door.

'Flat white, two sugars,' Creepy Guy called from the reading desk.

Lacey and I raised our eyebrows at each other, because of the bare-faced cheek of Creepy Guy, and the fact that I appeared to have an admirer, keen enough to seek me out at the store.

'Don't you dare go,' I said.

'Why not? I'll just be in the way.'

'It'll get awkward after about two minutes if you leave,' I said. 'I have no idea what we are going to talk about.'

'Did Bruce Wayne set you up with a blind date? Oh, my God. Bruce Wayne set you up!'

'I doubt it. That will be some jobsworth in Wayne Enterprises, stuck with finding a seat for this old biddy the boss has invited.'

When Ranald returned, he had Lacey's coffee and Creepy Guy's, which made us giggle. We couldn't explain, when Ranald emerged from the stacks. In the bag were Danish pastries: Ranald said he swore by them as a hangover cure. His night had got very messy.

'The young people and the shots,' he said. 'I can't put them away like I used to.'

'They didn't exist when we were young,' I said. 'It was all chasers then.'

'Maybe that's why.' He turned to Lacey. 'You were going pretty well, I saw.'

'I like dancing,' she said. 'The rest of the night was pretty boring.'

'Oh, I don't know about that.' Ranald looked at me and smiled. Was there a sly wink as well?

We talked about the evening. Ranald had been several times before; Lacey and I were first-timers. I was of the opinion that that was my first and last time. He was warm, he had a similar sense of humour to us, a similar sense of the ridiculous. He told entertaining stories about previous balls; he was a little indiscreet about his boss, Bruce Wayne, although he did say that no-one knew much about him because he didn't allow many people to get close to him. Although he looked after his employees, and turned up to functions, he operated at the social politeness level. Which is why Ranald was so surprised to see Bruce approaching Rafe Harlowe.

'Do you know what they talked about?' he asked. 'I bet it wasn't the Rogues' last home game.'

'No, I left them to it after the introduction. I wondered if that was the sole reason he invited me.'

'You were Bruce's guest?' Ranald's eyebrows went up.

I indicated the bookstore. 'Do I look like I can afford a ten thousand dollar fund-raiser ticket?'

'Wow. So how do you know him?'

'He's my landlord. The Wayne Foundation own this building.'

'But you've met him?'

I nodded.

'And she's met the Batman,' Lacey whispered.

'You are a very dark horse indeed,' Ranald remarked. 'Now there's a guy I would like to meet. But not in a dark alley.'

'He's been here,' Lacey murmured.

'Please, let's not talk about any of this anymore,' I said. I glanced towards the stacks, but Creepy Guy was not in sight.

'Maybe you can tell me another time,' Ranald said. 'I'm fascinated.'

'There's really nothing to tell,' I said. 'And the fewer people who know, the better.' I tried to indicate Creepy Guy, back in the stacks.

'Oh – oh – got it,' Ranald said. 'Mum's the word.'

He stayed a bit longer, then left once the coffee was finished. If he wanted my cell number, he wasn't able to ask for it, with Lacey there. She warmed up, she was her charming, hostess self, for which I was grateful.

'Do you want to see him again?' she asked as the door closed behind him.

'It's – too soon. It's only been three years. And while the lawsuit is going on . . . '

'I understand. But a guy like that – he ain't gonna be on the market for long, honey. It will be decision time soon, whether you like it or not.'

'Thanks to you, I won't know if he wants to be with me for me, or for the people I apparently know!'

'But he didn't know that when he came here – so,' she said decisively. 'Give him some serious thought. What's the worst that can happen?'

On Monday morning I left Lacey minding the store, something she didn't do very often, busy corporate wife that she was, and made my way to the offices of the lawyers acting for the bereaved families in the lawsuit against Gotham Developments. Ms Das Gupta, the lead advocate, had found a window in her busy schedule for me to hand over the papers and files that had fallen into Lacey's and my hands. It didn't look very professional, handing over plastic carrier bags of document wallets and ring binders, but I was confident she wouldn't judge the books by their covers. Sitting at her desk in her glassed-in office, flicking quickly through some of the contents, she assured me that she and her team would give the papers their best attention.

'I hope this is the breakthrough we have been looking for, Mrs Rossingdale,' Miss Das Gupta said. 'This has been going on for far too long. Thank you.'

I failed to tell her, and she didn't ask, how I had acquired them. I hoped that was not going to be an issue, that they would not be ruled inadmissible because they had not been surrendered either willingly or by court order. For the moment, we would skate over the fact that this evidence might have been improperly obtained, and hope that none of the defending parties brought that up.

Later on that cold, blustery afternoon, I stepped out of an elevator in a downtown skyscraper, headquarters of the Wayne Foundation, into the personal penthouse of Bruce Wayne. To say I was awestruck was an understatement. My life was going in directions I could never have imagined, and over which I had no control. Alfred Pennyworth met me, took my coat and showed me into the most enormous living room I had ever been in. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave the most incredible panoramic view of the city, over the rooftops to the distant river.

Two long, white couches faced each other over a low, expensive-looking coffee table near the windows. Mr Pennyworth invited me to sit, but I continued to stand until Bruce Wayne himself entered. I was absolutely not the equal of this very rich young man, and I was struggling not to be impressed and intimidated by the display of wealth, subtle and discreet though it was.

He was wearing the expensive dark suit, the white shirt, a dark red tie, with the matching handkerchief in the breast pocket. His hair was under better control, smarter, than when he had come to the store. His business persona. He sent Mr Pennyworth (whom he called Alfred) for some tea, then came towards me, hand held out.

'Thank you for coming.'

We shook hands. A cool, business-like, brief handshake. He sat on one couch, unbuttoning the jacket as he did so, and indicated I should sit opposite him.

'I feel I should call you Emma, after Friday night,' he continued. 'If that's okay.'

I nodded my assent. I couldn't bring myself to ask to call him Bruce.

'So. You probably want to know why I sent you the invitation, and did I get out of it what I was hoping for?'

'Many people could have got you an introduction to Rafe Harlowe. You could have just approached him yourself. I'm sure he knows who you are.'

'I'm sure he does. What was interesting to me was who was aware of you being there.'

'And who was?'

'More people than you could see, I assure you. You turned some interesting heads when you walked through the room.'

I wondered if that had been Calvin's real job: to watch and make note of who was watching me.

'And were they the heads you were expecting?'

'I was hoping to flush out the Archangels, or some of them. I am guessing they are not very happy with the lawsuit and its lack of progress.'

'How do you know about that? It's meant to be confidential.'

'Very little is truly confidential in this city, especially when you don't treat your staff very well. Or you carry on as if they don't exist.'

Yet you are, I thought. No-one knows much about you. You must inspire exceptional loyalty.

'And did you? Flush out any Archangels, I mean?'

He told me he thought Rafe Harlowe was one. Harlowe's full first name was Raphael, God heals, but he would not be an Archangel because of his name alone. An Archangel needed to have substantial wealth and power.

'So why aren't you one? You own most of this city. Most of the jobs here are in your businesses.'

His gaze turned sharply towards me, eyes narrowed, lips pursed in a slight pout. What had I said, that had unsettled him?

'Many, but maybe not most. Maybe I am considered a little too . . . I don't know. However. We shall see if I catch anything on my little fishing trip.'

Mr Pennyworth arrived with the tea: Earl Grey, with lemon. I looked at them both - how did they know? I had been with them when they had gone into the kitchen for the survey. They had not opened any cupboards. There was also a plate of very dainty lavender shortbread biscuits.

Bruce Wayne settled back against the cushions with his cup.

'So who was the man who approached you after you introduced me to Harlowe?' he asked.

I explained he was a lawyer called Ouray Mahigan, who offered to act for me in the lawsuit. This was after Harlowe had practically insisted it was in my best interests to accept an offer from Gotham Developments.

'But you have lawyers, you and the other plaintiffs.'

'We do. I kind of felt they were trying to separate me off from the others, Harlowe and Mahigan.'

'Did you feel threatened?'

'A little.'

'You are right to. Don't have anything to do with him.'

'Why not?'

So he explained that he believed Ouray Mahigan to be connected to the Falcone family, a family of criminals, like Mafia, that he suspected of having links to the Archangels.

'Nothing can happen in this city without Don Falcone's say-so. Very little happens in this city without a connection to the Archangels. Hmm. Why has he come out of the woodwork now?'

He stared out of the window while he thought, pursing his lips and frowning.

'Do you think he could be one? An archangel, I mean.' I asked.

'You think they could be working together?'

'Mahigan kept looking towards Harlowe, but – but no, I didn't get that impression. Is it possible?'

'Almost anything's possible. I'm not sure I even know how many of them there are.'

I named them for him. Michael (considered the most powerful), Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Raguel, Saraqael, Lucifer.

'So seven,' he said. 'I thought there were twelve.'

'It depends who you're asking. The Catholic Church recognise only three – Michael, Gabriel and Raphael. The others – they have various names.'

'You seem to know a lot about it.'

'I spend a lot of time alone in a bookstore.'

He nodded slowly, as if he understood.

'Lucifer.' That one appeared to puzzle him.

'The fallen angel. Or the bringer of light. Again, depends who you're talking to.'

Lucifer, the fallen angel: the one who started a war in Heaven with God, because he wanted to be God. That could be Rafe Harlowe – the god-like figure that bestrode Gotham Developments like a colossus. Rafe didn't like to lose, and James had come home with many metaphorical bruises to prove it.

'Ouray Mahigan. Hmm. Worth looking into, worth pursuing, maybe.'

I fervently hoped that this looking into would not involve me. As far as I was concerned, I was done. I had fulfilled my obligation to him, the lawsuit was going to come to an end, as was my time in Gotham City, if I so chose.

My host was silent for a while, gazing out of the window, considering matters.

Guilt about the Larsson papers was weighing heavily. I felt I had to confess. I broke into his thoughts.

'But we didn't know whose side you were on,' I concluded. 'We didn't know if they would disappear if we gave them to you.'

He pressed his lips into a thin line.

'I can see how it looked, as I appeared to be asking on behalf of Mrs Larsson. Which I wasn't, by the way. Have you looked at them? How incriminating do you think they are?'

Suddenly I was worried: was I saying too much? Had Lacey's gut instinct been right?

'Can I see them? I presume you kept copies,' he said. When I didn't answer, he replaced his cup on the tray and leant forward earnestly. 'Suddenly it all makes sense. Harlowe. Mahigan. Look, when people find out you have them – and they will – it can only get violent. You are going to need my help. You are going to have to trust me.'

He held my gaze with his intense grey eyes. So like the Bat's eyes. I was starting to feel ill. I was beginning to lose track of how this had suddenly escalated, all because Lacey and I had cleared the library of a murdered man. This was nothing to do with James anymore. This was something much bigger we had got ourselves into.

'Let me help you.'

'Why – why are you interested in all this?'

He stood up and walked over to the window, his hands in his pockets. He looked out over the view. I studied his profile, his strong jawline. He and the Bat must surely be related.

'This is my city. My roots here go back a long way. I don't like what's happening to it, what it's becoming. We are not Chicago. We are not going to be a city ruled by gangsters and mobsters, if I have anything to do with it.' He turned to face me. 'That's my interest. Yours is justice for your husband and his dead colleagues. We are not so far apart in what we want. We can help each other.'

I realised he so rarely smiled. He did not rely on charm, but earnestness and honesty to carry his points. I nodded.

'So you will get me copies of the papers.'

It was not a request. I nodded again.

'Good. You won't regret it.'

'I hope not. Were you serious – about it getting violent, I mean?'

'Oh yes. I would not joke about something like that. I believe you have stirred up a hornets' nest. And I don't think you will get the outcome you want from these papers.'

'What do you mean?'

So he explained that if the Archangels were involved with Falcone, then some poor soldato would be pressured to take the rap for the building collapse, compensation being paid to his family for the time he would serve in prison.

'Can we stop that?'

'No, probably not. The real villains will walk free, I'm afraid. And they will find a way not to pay compensation to the families of the victims. I'm sorry.'

He walked over to a door on the far side, and opened it. Mr Pennyworth appeared.

'We can copy the papers here, if you still want to keep a set, but I don't advise it,' Bruce said. 'Alfred, can you arrange a car for Emma, please?'

He came back to the couches. I stood; my meeting was over.

'You have my contact details. If you call when you have the papers, I will arrange to have them collected. But please do call if there is any problem. Any problem at all. I suspect these are powerful, unpleasant people. Let's bring them down.' He held out his hand. I shook it. 'Thank you for coming. And for your time on Friday night. I appreciate it.'

'No, thank you,' was all I managed to say. I was numb, rather frightened. I was not sure I wanted to go home. At the top of this building, I felt I could be safe.

Mr Pennyworth escorted me to the elevator. He handed me into my coat.

'Are you all right, Mrs Rossingdale?' he asked.

'No, not really, Mr Pennyworth. To be perfectly honest, Mr Wayne has unsettled me.'

He nodded. 'Big boys' games, big boys' rules. You have the CCTV. You have a contact number. Use them both. Don't be afraid to call. He will decide what's important, what needs a response.'

As the doors opened and I stepped into the elevator, he said:

'You can do this. For your husband, Mrs Rossingdale.'

The doors closed, the elevator carried me back to the small, private entrance lobby. Out in the street, Ryan and the car were waiting. My cell phone rang. It was someone at the university, to tell me that some of James's files had turned up in the Social Anthropology department, and they were awaiting collection at the University main reception desk. Ryan obligingly drove me there, through the early evening rush hour that was starting to build. It was getting dark. He couldn't promise to wait, there was no street parking available at the front of the university building and he did not want to get a ticket. He offered to circle until I came out, but I let him go, home to his family. I clattered up the steps.

The person behind the desk handed me a waxy, canvas-type shopping bag containing two battered document folders, pretty much filled with papers, bits of which were sticking out. There was a ring binder, also full to bursting. The person behind the desk had no knowledge of any other papers: she referred me to Professor Allbird. But these might be enough, as I had no idea exactly what the Bat was expecting or hoping to find.

I came out into the night air, not wanting to go home just yet, not knowing what I did want to do. Fortunately I was wearing flattish shoes, so I started walking, roughly in the direction of my district. It was about six-thirty, the traffic was crawling slowly down the main roads, lots of red tail-lights. As I came to the entertainment district, the numbers of people on the sidewalk increased, even on a chilly Monday evening. I chose to walk down the street with the expensive restaurants, slowing to look at the menus outside, sometimes peering in at the mostly empty tables.

As I turned away from the menu outside one of the many Italian restaurants, I bumped into a man on his way in.

'I'm so sorry,' we both said, and laughed.

Then I looked up at his face.

'Well, isn't this a coincidence!' Ranald said. 'Sorry, are you on your way in?'

'No, I was just . . . '

'Passing? Does that mean you have no plans?'

'I don't normally have plans on a Monday evening.'

'Would you – would you do me the honour of joining me? I have had a tiring, stressful day at work, I was just going to grab a bite to eat. Some company would be very welcome.'

He smiled warmly. And without knowing why, maybe because I spent too much time on my own, maybe because, despite my view that I couldn't contemplate a new relationship so soon after James, I found him attractive, I accepted his invitation. Maybe I just missed male conversation, a male sense of humour.

It was warm and cosy in the restaurant, Ranald was good company, his full attention was intoxicating. The conversation flowed. He told me about his divorce; I told him about James's accident. He was shocked, and offered his condolences. We talked about grief and the pain of separation. We discovered a shared love of Simon and Garfunkel, as well as Tennyson. I had to excuse him for liking Emmylou Harris, as he excused me my love of The Who. We lingered over coffee and limoncello. The restaurant were in no hurry to move us on; they were not going to sell the table again. He insisted on paying, despite my protests.

'I am on the payroll of one of the richest young men in the States,' he said. 'Silly money, really.'

'I'm sure you're worth it.'

'You're too kind.'

This time he was able to ask for my cell number, but only if I was comfortable giving it to him.

'I understand if it's too soon,' he said. 'But I hope we could be friends, if nothing more. We have a lot in common.'

I was surprised that I was happy to give it. I realised I liked him, quite a lot. He phoned for a cab for me.

'On the company account,' he said.

'Now it's you who are too kind,' I said. 'Don't get sacked for fiddling the expenses on my account.'

We hesitated; he lent in and kissed my cheek, then squeezed my hand.